Monday, January 24, 2011

I wouldn't care if I had to put each piece together myself, I wouldn't care if there were pieces left over after assembling it, all I want is an IKEA kitchen. If a handsome Swede would like to assist me during installation, I'd be fine with that too - especially if he plays Eric Northman on True Blood (rawr!) What was I saying? Oh, yes...

My kitchen is nothing like an IKEA kitchen, I am sad to say. It is old, it is yellow, it is outdated, and everything is coated in greasy dust no matter how often things are washed. Each day I walk through the doorway and reach behind Fridge A (primarily the beverage fridge) to turn on the light. Is it on? I wonder. Or is it just a yellow-orange filter that gives the illusion of brightness? I dare not enter without protective footwear; slippers are a necessity. I dodge recyclable items that have made their way further in from the corner of the room, and curse at my brother for not completing his assigned chore before there was enough paper, plastic, and glass to build a ten-foot robot with laser beams and X-ray vision.

A warm, furry body rubs against my shin. I look down and Lucy is looking up at me with two big blue eyes and a hungry, yet very picky belly. I ask her if she's hungry. She does not reply. I go to Fridge B and remove the raw chicken and organ meat-thing that I've lovingly mixed with a generous spoonful of white meat chicken florentine Fancy Feast Elegant into a glass bowl that is elevated like an ice cream bowl so that she may not strain her delicate neck as she leans in to nibble at her meal. I set it down for her. She smells it, looks up at me, and walks away. That bitch.

I return to search the contents of Fridge B for something less fancy for myself. I consider grilled cheese but then remember that I have class later and since I don't want to get a tummy ache (bless the food allergy gods), I think better of it. I yank out one of the ever-full Drawers of Fruits & Vegetables and grab a cucumber; cucumber because the lettuce has gone bad and I still want something fresh and crisp in my sandwich. After shoving the drawer back in, I take the old fashioned ham from The Drawer of Hams & Cheeses and set it on the wood counter behind me which is covered in minor sugar and hot chocolate powder spills. I can't rest my hand on the counter without feeling tiny granules imprinting themselves into my skin. Its edges are chipped and dented here and there from countless knocks of pickle and jam jars. My slippers successfully spare my socks from crumbs on the blue area rug on which I stand.

I see above me the dreaded Third Cupboard has been left open. I despise this cupboard. The twisty-knobby device that holds it closed has been used so much that it no longer locks properly. I push on the door firmly. It doesn't close. I try again. Failure. I hold the door in place and bang on it. If it had a mouth it would laugh at me, mocking me, I'm sure of it. So, I hold the edge of the now-cackling door and slam it shut. Just before I can scream, "Victory!" Second Cupboard opens and a cacophony of unpleasant howls and chuckles would fill the room... if cupboards had mouths.

IKEA cupboards wouldn't be so mean. They wouldn't need to be; they would close on the first try. If only...

I take out the mayonnaise and one egg from Fridge A. Fridge A was dragged here from Chile because my mom loves it so much and it will probably be dragged to Spain in a few years, too, once she moves there. It is, I must admit, a very nice fridge. It keeps things cold and beeps at you if you leave the door open - isn't that nice? On top of it, among some dusty clay pots from Pomaire, Chile and boxes and boxes and jumbo boxes of cereal lies a big black box that weighs a tonne and converts the voltage from 220V to the Canadian standard 110V. When there was no room for a second fridge in the kitchen, we put the fridge in my brother's room unplugged and used it as a pantry. Don't worry, we didn't keep the Wagon Wheels in there, but now that I think of it, the Mr. Noodles did seem to go pretty quick.

Fridge-pantries would not be necessary if I had an IKEA kitchen. The number of drawers and cupboards would amount to sufficient storage. If only...

The next thing I do is take the smallest frying pan out of what is supposed to be used as a pantry for food but now stores pots and pans. There used to be cans of artichokes and pineapple being forgotten due to its depth - shameful, I know. There was a lot of vertical space being wasted too, and in a non-IKEA kitchen, you can't afford to have wasted space. As it is, there is only one wall on which pots can hang, as the other empty wall, although it begs for hooks, is made out of something too weak to hold anything. A small splash of vegetable oil goes on the frying pan, followed by the egg. I cover it with a pot lid. My toast is toasting, unevenly of course, next to the kettle which I will have to wait to use because otherwise I will blow the fuse.

If I had an IKEA kitchen, the electrical system would be updated so that more than one small appliance could be used at the same time. If only...

I cut a chunk of cucumber, wash it, and slice it, narrowly missing the tip of my index finger multiple times as I do so. It's not that I'm careless with knives, it's that it's too dark to see what I'm cutting. I might as well be slicing blindfolded; I'd have the same chances of cutting my finger off that I do when I chop now. I'm surprised there haven't been more trips to the emergency room or dinners made not only with love but a kind of unique customization. Saying, "You've really put a bit of yourself into this one!" would take on a whole new meaning.

An IKEA kitchen would be much better lit. If only...

I slap the mayo on the toast, and then the cucumber and ham. My sandwich is nearly complete. I lift the lid from the frying pan and see the egg white is cooked and the yolk is almost cooked; it's runny just the way I like it. I gently drop it onto the open sandwich, sprinkle on some cayenne pepper, and carefully apply the second slice of bread. I slowly stab the centre and cut it in half. The thick yellow liquid oozes out, coating the middle of both halves.

Although my kitchen is anything but an IKEA kitchen, especially since it is suspected that back in 1906 it was actually a bedroom, we make do. Although the counter space is limited, the lighting (if it even deserves to be called that) is poor, the cupboards don't close and the drawers don't open, and there are things that have been stuck to the floor since we moved in, we make do. Despite the long list of things wrong with my kitchen, in it, hours have been spent baking everything from mango pies to peanut butter cookies to Chilean empanadas, and hours have been spent cooking everything from stir fries to broccoli-chicken lasagnes to Polish borscht. We make healthy meals. We try hard to make a proper dinner as often as we can, and when we do, everyone helps out. Even Lucy hairs get in the food sometimes - that's how much she wants to be a part of dinner-making.

One day, I will have an IKEA kitchen, a kitchen of my dreams, where everything has its place and is easily organized and cleaned. It won't be soon, I know, but until that day, I will make do with whatever kitchen I've got. I love making food too much not to.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

This is sort of an expansion on the previous post I made about how lying can benefit the world. In this globulation, I talk about how honesty can benefit the world based on personal experience.

As I was reading others' blog posts, I thought about the relationship I have with my mom and remembered why it’s so good: honesty.

When I was a kid, and I broke a teacup after my mom told me not to play with it, I was afraid to tell her about it. I considered hiding it, but I knew she'd notice it was missing. Plus, I was scared to pick up the tiny sharp pieces of white ceramic from the carpet. So, I took what I could of the teacup to her. With my head hanging in shame and a knot of guilt in my stomach, I told her what I had done and that I was sorry, and I begged her not to be angry. She said it was okay. It was okay? How could it be okay? I was expecting a lashing or to be dangled by my ankles out the window or fed to a tank of hungry sharks, but no. "Shit happens," was her response - except probably something more appropriate for a five year-old’s ears. This kind of thing happened over and over again in my past, mostly because I'm ridiculously clumsy, but I never hid anything from her because I knew that “Shit happens. It’s not the end of the world.” She’s never let me forget that, and that’s why I’ve never worried about hiding the truth from her.

Our ability to communicate, I think, is unparalleled; it is so, in fact, that sometimes we don't even need to speak. Usually I'll think something and she'll say it. One time, my tummy growled very quietly, and I only felt it; no one could hear it, but then my mom said she was hungry. *Cue Twilight Zone music.* Other times it’ll be like, “Do you have a thingy with you?” “Yeah, but it’s the kind you don’t like.” “That’s okay.” And I’ll whip the “thingy” out of my purse and my brother will look at us wide-eyed and ask, “How did you know what she was talking about?” Actually, that’s not true. My brother is completely oblivious to 96% of his surroundings unless it has four wheels, a leather interior, or breasts. The “thingy” in question is a grapefruit-flavoured lip balm.

But I told my mom about every insecurity: "Is this supposed to be like this?"Every incident with a stupid boy: "He asked me to tell him when I was menstruating so he would know when not to hang out with me because he ‘doesn’t want to see me when I’m angry.’" (I guess he was pretty lucky that I wasn’t menstruating then.)Every time someone made me feel bad: "I can see why you wouldn't want to go swimming."

And she told me about herself in return: the way my dad had made her feel when he left, that guy she went on a date with who didn’t leave enough of a tip, how much she wished she could wear high heels but no longer could. The same cannot be said for my father. He can still wear high heels.

I was a daddy’s girl when I was a kid, believe it or not. After he left, though, his interest in me and my brother left too. Although it sometimes felt like we were strangers forced to be in the same room with each other, I still felt like I was able to talk to him relatively easily. I opened up to him a few times, but he never opened up to me… until the day he told us he was leaving the country. It’s hard to be honest with someone who tells you lies, but it’s also hard to be honest with someone who doesn’t tell you anything.

Some people think the relationship I have with my mom is not good, that it’s unhealthy. You know, because we get along and have a lot in common and are able to talk about very personal things and we spend a lot of time together and we enjoy each other’s company and have similar values. I have even told her about my sex life (gasp!). Yes, those are all definite signs of an unhealthy mother-daughter relationship and I should rebel immediately and vow never to talk to her again. Despite our numerous similarities, we have differences. I’m an introvert, and she’s an extrovert. I like grapefruit, and she doesn’t. I work better when it’s quiet, and she works better when she listens to music. We have a vast middle ground of things we agree on yet there are some things on which we don’t, and I think that’s important for any relationship. Although we are very open with one another, we are still true to ourselves; I am my own person, as is she.

Some parents feel they need to hide things from their kids because it’s a way of “protecting them.” They might never let their child see them cry. They might never let their child see their true emotions, period. I saw how my mom reacted to things that her father or mother-in-law or friend has said. She never hid her emotions from me, and I learned a lot from that. It probably helped that she was terrible at hiding them, but because of the honesty that still holds us together, I don’t think she’s ever really felt like she had to hide anything.

If she hasn’t hidden anything from me, why would I hide things from her?

I can depend on my mom to tell me the truth and to listen to me when I have a secret to tell. From this honesty came trust, and from trust came respect. These are the most important things in a relationship. My mom is my best friend, and honesty is what got us to this point. It just has to go both ways.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

This is something I wrote for Creative Nonfiction about truth in general and truth in this genre:

Lies are everywhere. The media tell lies, strangers tell lies, politicians tell lies, the lighting in fitting rooms tell lies, as do zippers, belts, buttons, magnified mirrors, and weighing scales. They're told by everyone, and they can even come out of the mouths of the people you trust most. The truth is not always easy; in fact, it rarely is. It can hurt to hear and it can be difficult to say. However, this does not mean that it should be avoided or censored or not said. The truth needs to be told, and in the end it will always come out. I value honesty greatly, and I'd like to think I'm a pretty honest person, but there is a place in the world for lies.

If you were invited to your boss' house for dinner and he/she asked you what you thought of the lasagna, you probably have little choice but to say that it was good. The lasagna could have been horrible, it could have tasted like something you might scrape off the highway with a shovel, but would you say that to your host? Or might it be better to go for something a little less... true, and politely decline the invitation for seconds?

People ask each other how they are all the time, but they don't really expect someone to tell them the entire truth."How are you?""Fine, thanks. You?" Not: "Bad," because then you'll have to explain. "I suspect my husband is cheating on me, the dog threw up its own poop on the new carpet last night, my son is failing grade 7, I forgot to put on deodorant this morning, and I don't know what to make for dinner. How are you?"Nobody is looking for that kind of answer, and few people would be willing to give one like it, so it's easier to simply say, "Fine, thanks," and why not? It doesn't hurt anybody.

In terms of telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth in creative nonfiction, I can't remember a time when I've ever taken that oath before I started writing. I believe that as long as the main idea is accurately portrayed, the details can be modified. In a work of creative nonfiction, people's appearances can sometimes be changed as long as their actions remain the same, and this can be said for other minor factors like weather, time of day, smells, and even speech. You can play with imagery if it will benefit the essay. Typically when you write, there is an idea, a message, a feeling, and/or an opinion that you try to get across. In order to make it more of an art form as opposed to a toaster oven instruction manual, creative nonfiction writers have the chance to convey those things by making a few alterations. They're not so much lies in this regard as they are enhancements.

When you take a suit in for alterations, the changes that are made to the clothing are done to fit you and your specific body type. The sleeves might be shortened, the waist taken in, or the shoulder pads removed, but in the end, is it not the same suit? It's still the same colour, the fabric is not different, it still has three buttons, except now you look amazing in it and not like an oversized square on legs. The suit has been customized to enhance the features of your body that might have otherwise been overlooked or hidden. This is the kind of thing I consider to be the "creative" in creative nonfiction: you refine the edges of something true to your liking.

The truth is, not everyone can handle the truth, as you might have seen from some of the people who responded to the latest Wikileaks, who encouraged the "elimination" of Julian Assange, the Wikileaks messenger. Sometimes the reactions to the truths being exposed are more revealing than the secrets themselves. Other times it's not the lie itself that is harmful, but the fact that a lie was told in the first place. People lie constantly, and that can be okay, but sometimes it's not. While being careful as to when certain details are enhanced, either by addition or omission, creative nonfiction writers still write about what they feel or know to be true. The key to being a good writer of this genre is knowing when to tell a lie and when not to.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

This globulation contains mature subject matter, and comments on sex from someone whom you may prefer to not think of as being sexually active. Reader discretion is advised.

No, seriously. I'm going to talk about sex. And about me. Like, together. At the same time.

Before we answer the question, "When does sex end?" we ought to look at how sex began/begins. We know that sex was mostly used for procreation in earlier years, but what about now? It's the 21st century, and sex is all over the media, you hear about it all the time, information on it and footage of it is highly accessible and, frankly, everyone is doing it. Sex is popular, and most of us know that it can be really enjoyable - when done correctly. A lot of us, too, know that it can be really rather terrible when it is done incorrectly. Perhaps skill is directly related to the amount of practice you get, but this is not always the case. I believe that ignorance plays a large part in the bedrooms of bad sex.

I went for a drink with Sh a while ago; we talked a lot with a very friendly bartender, and the topic of bad sex came up. She told us that one time, a 30 year-old guy came in to the bar and told her of an epiphany he'd had: women can enjoy sex too (or something along those lines - she was a very generous bartender). So, for roughly seventeen years, he was under the impression that sex was a one-way street. He thought that sex ended when he came. As it turns out, women can have orgasms too. Multiple, in fact.

It probably helps to know what sex is before you go into it. It's more than guys "going into it." I mean, it could be just that: get naked (optional, more or less), spread legs, insert, orgasm, remove (or "remove, orgasm"). But that's usually bad sex, one-way street sex. There is one thing that seems to be forgotten when sex occurs, which I think is strange since most people know about it...: foreplay. Foreplay. Say it with me now... FOREPLAY. Why does foreplay so often get forgotten? It may not be necessary to officially have sex, but it sure is nice. It's a courtesy thing, and it's really beneficial for both participants, even if you've been together for a long time. In fact, over time, it probably becomes more necessary to keep things exciting.

But maybe it's just me. Maybe I only wish there had been more foreplay in my sexual experiences because I'm really an unattractive troll and the idea of touching my body is completely revolting to most members of the opposite sex and I, therefore, was not fortunate enough to partake in foreplay, and, consequently, my experiences cannot be used as examples because they are misrepresentations of how sex normally is, because most normal people aren't quite so disgusting. Hmm. Something tells me this isn't the case. But perhaps I should have said I wanted more. But perhaps I feel like I shouldn't have to explain that when a guy sticks it in, moves it back and forth, maybe kisses me on the lips, that really isn't enough to give me an orgasm. The thing is, I'm not going to tell someone what I like if I don't think he's interested in knowing what I've got to say. The male needs to show an interest in the female's pleasure if he wants her to tell him what feels good.

What feels good? How can sex be started better? Oral sex is good, but it seems to me that fellatio is more common than cunnilingus, and I think they should receive equal attention. I don't see why one should be more acceptable or more widely performed than the other since they're basically the same thing, just done on the other person. Another way to stimulate your female partner is to use your hands. If you're a guy, and right now you stop scratching your head in confusion and lower your arm, at the end of it you'll find what is called a "hand." Attached to your hand should be five fingers. These fingers can be applied to your female partner's body in many different ways, most of which could bring her pleasure.

Most guys probably know that, but I know some who don't (or they do but fail to act on this knowledge), and at this point, when there is so much information on the topic, there really is no good excuse. Even if you don't know what you're doing in the sack, and it's okay if you don't, all it takes is a bit of consideration. Ask: What would make her feel good? Experiment. Ask her to show you. Pay attention to what she does and says. Figure out how she works. Look it up on the internet (this does NOT mean watch porn). I just looked up "bad sex" on the internet and found this page, which seems useful: Break Bad Sex Habits. It's kind of a weird site, but from what I've read, the tips are useful and backed up by studies, and for the most part I agree with them.

If the male reaches an orgasm before the female, is it good enough that he may have tried a little harder here and there? Is it good enough that he apologizes for not making her cum? I don't think so. Sometimes it's okay, sure, but is it really too much to ask for further application of the man's hands/fingers even if the man will not necessarily be the one receiving physical pleasure or satisfaction?

When it comes to heterosexual sex, a lot of people think that sex ends when the man has an orgasm. In most cases, it is easier for men to reach an orgasm than it is for women to... during intercourse. If things other than just penetration are done before or during intercourse, this may not apply. Plus, if the man has an orgasm first, this does not mean that he should just give up and go to sleep. Guys have hands, don't they? And mouths - at least one, typically. And unless we're talking about necrophiliacs, she's probably still alive and willing, assuming she was willing in the first place.

So, if you have a hard time having sex for longer periods of time, if you're sometimes a "premie," that's okay - as long as you remember that your partner is still next to you, still breathing (hopefully), and probably still ready to be satisfied sexually. Even if you've already mastered the longer-than-five-minutes sex session, don't be afraid to get your hands dirty. Your lady-friends will thank you for it.

I started writing this a long time ago, and after reading through it and changing a couple of things, I discovered it was pretty much ready for publication here. There will be a second part to this globulation and it will be uploaded shortly. Perhaps if I was taller, it could be uploaded tall-ly, but unfortunately everything I ever post is posted shortly.

The second part to this globulation will answer the final question in this post: "When does sex end?"

"...in the ancestral past, wouldn’t there likely have been some reproductive advantages to ejaculating as quickly as possible during intravaginal intercourse—such as, oh, I don’t know, inseminating as many females as possible in as short a time frame as possible? or allowing our ancestors to focus on other adaptive behaviors aside from sex? or perhaps, under surreptitious mating conditions, doing the deed quickly and expeditiously without causing a big scene?"

The article talks about many good points relating to the biological reasons for men's ability to ejaculate quickly. It's for procreation. Men needed to distribute that sperm as widely as possible, so the less time it took for a man to climax, the more time he had to attempt impregnating another female. Women were just incubators, a means to populate the earth. With any luck, the man would deposit his sperm in a female during the proper time of her menstrual cycle and a little Incubator Jr. or Sperm-depositor Jr. would be conceived. However, this allows males to not be tied to his female, as she wouldn't be his at all, leaving the female to take care of the child on her own and the child to never know his father. That might have been fine back in the day, you know, when fire was a novelty, but we are now a civilized species, more or less. Most of us value the concept of a "family."

In addition, women are not just used for procreation anymore; at least they shouldn't be. Their ability to experience pleasure is taken under consideration during intercourse... some of the time. After all, the sole purpose of the clitoris is to provide pleasure; if we did not deserve to experience pleasure during sex, why bother having one?

Certain primates respond well to speedy ejaculation. "...macaque sex is a chaotic and violent affair, largely because the duration of the act often draws hostile attention from other competitive males" (Bering). Plus, the females probably just want to get it over with. On the other hand, certain species, including humans, sometimes find it hard to conceive if they are undergoing some form of stress during intercourse. Of course, this cannot be said for those impregnated during a rape; it does not mean the victim enjoyed it, as it was once believed, it simply means they are more able to conceive than others may be.

Premature ejaculation should not be seen as something negative and the man should not be blamed or ridiculed for it. However, this brings up a question that I've thought about many times: When does sex end?

In case you needed one more thing to *facepalm* to, here is OWN, the new Oprah Winfrey Network that you can find on cable TV. Isn't that excellent? Isn't that just what we needed? Isn't garbage television the perfect thing to watch if you want nonsense and reality-TV and advice from idiots ALL DAY LONG? Why yes, yes it is. And that's exactly what Oprah Winfrey has done: combined a series of total shit programs onto one TV station. We may just never use our minds to the extent that we could! We may never have to think critically or rationally because who cares about logic and science and education and other life-enriching things like art, literature (Yeah, yeah, she has a book club), history and quality music, when you can watch "Miracle Detectives?" Don't you want to know if miracles can happen? Because they sure sound cool. Let's leave our ability to question bullshit behind us, shall we?

"'Ask Oprah's All Stars': Dr. Oz, Suze Orman and Dr. Phil all shout advice at the camera at the same time; whoever's loudest wins their own talk show. Losers are fed to a tank of great white sharks and torn limb-from-limb before a transfixed studio audience."

Frankly, I kind of like that one.

I also like the first comment on it: "Thank god the world ends next December."

My mom posted this video on Facebook:

Those people are insane. That, or they're faking it, because their reactions look so artificial to me. Are they? I know that if someone gave me a free spa package or something, I'd be like, "Hey! Sweet. Thanks," and that would be about as excited I'd get. If I knew the person, they'd probably get hugged. These people look like Jesus has come down and said, "YOU WILL BE SAVED," or something Jesus-y like that and they're just really, really stoked that he stopped by and did that. What a guy, eh? But no. These people get plasma TVs. Woot. I'd be like, "Woah, awesome! How am I going to fit this in my car? I have a TV already. Where am I going to put this one? Meh, I'll think of something."

Even if I got a manservant I wouldn't cry. Even if I got a red convertible Mini Cooper with black stripes I wouldn't cry. Is there something wrong with me? Is there something wrong with those people? Or do people just react differently when it comes to receiving gifts, and it just so happens that over 90% of Oprah's audience responds by screaming and crying and jumping and opening their mouths wider than I'd care to see and dancing and falling to the floor and grasping their heads in disbelief and waving their hands in the air and generally behaving like crazy people as their eyeballs bulge out of their sockets?

"Because what people really value is acquiring crap." - Bill Maher, from the video above.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

She's funny in such a cool way. Check out her hoodie. I didn't notice until my mom pointed it out but... just look! I want.

Rebecca talks about health tips advised by idiots. This ranges from the eat-nothing-but-maple-syrup-lemon-and-pepper diet, to magic silicone bracelets, and to the re-absorption of one's sperm (sorry ladies, this only works for dudes).

My mom and I split a bottle of champagne: Asti. Soooo goooood! We got... a little... happy. It was a very funny first few minutes of 2011; I enjoyed it. We also coloured in penguins and snowmen - ornaments for our Christmas tree!

Btw, how stupid is it to colour in a snowman? Seriously. What colour do you THINK I'm going to colour his body? So I coloured his hat and his scarf and the little bird that somehow rested on his scarf, which I assume covered his shoulder.

While my mom and I were colouring and giggling and reenacting scenes from Doctor Who with Daleks using the wiry champagne cap thing and a lighter, and saying things like, "First burp of the year! YAY!!!" ... the rest of the world was getting drunk. Wait, we were drunk. Okay, the rest of the world was getting shitfaced! And partying. We were partying too, in our own way. I prefer our way. Vomit-free, creepyguy-free, cold-free, happily. It was a successful New Year's Eve-Day.

The Globulator.

Feminist, atheist, freak. I'm a creative writing student at the University of Victoria. I worship and am ruled by my cat, Lucy (or Lucifer). I'm a piano key banger, camera clicker, yummy-goodness baker, guitar beginner, quirky movie and groovy music lover, and a passionate procrastinator. I have a strange sense of humour and a lack of... height.